


Life Has Never Been Kind To Draco Malfoy

by getoffmybarricade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Darry - Freeform, Depression, Draco is gay, Happy Ending, Harry is too good for this world, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It depends how you look at it, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, M/M, Unrequited Love, he’s also ace but that’s not plot relevant, ish?, only briefly but the tw is still there, recovery? Kind of?, sad draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26256646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade
Summary: Draco Malfoy does not think he is a good person.He knows this.And yet even though he keeps telling himself this it never really seems to make any of the sadness go away.Or: the fic where Draco thinks about the choices he made in his life and realises what he needs to do...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 94





	Life Has Never Been Kind To Draco Malfoy

Draco Malfoy does not think he is a good person. 

He knows this. 

And yet even though he keeps telling himself this it never really seems to make any of the sadness go away. 

He often wonders what it was that really made everything click; what sent him over the edge, spiralling into a cold depth that strayed further and further from the light. And at first it was purely a flicker of sadness that he would realise was beating in time with his heart, but then it became more. It became painful and scary; a void swelling and swallowing everything in his path and turning him away from the light. 

He supposed that most have been when he turned to the dark side too. 

Of course, evil has always been a part of his blood. His father was stone cold and cruel, his wicked ways working themselves into his life the same way his hand was always griping his shoulder so tightly. And Draco wouldn’t say that he himself is evil. He doesn’t think he ever has been. His mother wasn’t as forceful as his father. She was cruel too, yes, but he often wonders that if maybe Lucius hadn’t been so devoted to his Dark Lord, could things have been different? 

His father never really loved him either. He was never proud of his son. He was proud of his pure-blood descent and white-blonde hair that was a copy of his own, but never of the person he was. 

And Draco no longer follows the dark path he used to, no longer speaks the cruel things he does not believe. And if his life had been perfectly planned out and written like fate in the stars, then everything would have fallen into place too. However, that is not the case. Life has never been kind to Draco Malfoy, nor has it ever shown any intention of doing so. Life tricks him and nudges him in directions he doesn’t want to follow and places he doesn’t want to go. 

Hogwarts has always been his home. He remembers how excited he was that first year when he returned home for Christmas; he was bursting to tell his parents how much he learnt, how much fun he had, but when he tried to show them this he was brushed off and cast aside. 

“You’re a Malfoy,” his father had said coldly, “act like one.” 

And each year he returned home slightly less enthusiastic, a little more quiet and ashamed to be disgracing his family’s name. And every year it got worse and worse until slowly there was no magic left for him at Hogwarts anymore. He was just a piece in his parents battles. 

Right from the start he had known he never wanted to lead a life like his father had; one of twisted minds and evil games. Time behind bars and staring into the eyes of a man-no, a monster-that followed his every mood. He does not want to name him because if he does then he has to see everything come crashing back. He doesn’t want to see the stone cold bodies of his friends and the glassy eyes of people he disliked but never wanted to see dead. 

And he doesn’t want to see his father. 

Or his mother. 

Or his past. 

Or his Mark. 

Or his love. 

No. No his love isn’t his, can never be. His love is settled down with a wife and children and he is still telling the story that needs to be told. 

His love...his love cannot be his love because it is unfair of him after all these years to even  _ try _ and ask for forgiveness. He would receive it, he knows this, if he is to ask but he cannot face seeing him again after all those years. 

He remembers the first time he ever laid eyes on him; they were both young and beautifully innocent and blessed with the ability to be too naive to know what to believe in. 

_ Twenty-four years ago  _

_ Draco Malfoy knew from the start he was going to be sorted into Slytherin. His entire family had been for decades upon decades and he was proud to be the next Malfoy joining the chain. He didn’t know anyone here yet, not properly anyway, but Hogwarts was somewhere he’d dreamed of going his whole life and he was finally, finally here.  _

_ He’d also heard rumours about Harry Potter attending the school this year.  The  Harry Potter. And he was planing on befriending him early on; before the fame went to his head. Maybe then he would stick by him the whole time.  _

_ He pushed his way through the crowd of straggly first-years who all seemed irrationally nervous, heading straight for the dark haired boy he could see right at the front.  _

_ “Is it true then?” He asked, and for some reason his voice had a bite to it that he didn’t intend. He supplied it was the result of arguing with his father; a sharp voice and a cold shoulder. “Harry Potter’s going to Hogwarts?”  _

_ The dark haired boy spun around and Draco almost gasped. Thankfully he didn’t.  _

_ The boy was oddly beautiful, in a way that he’d never seen before. He had piercing green eyes that contrasted with his light bronze skin and an assortment of freckles scattered across his cheeks. He wore a pair of circular glasses, floppy hair falling into his face and when he swept it aside impatiently he saw the lightning bolt scar there on his forehead.  _

_ Harry Potter didn’t say anything, but he looked vaguely intrigued, and raised an eyebrow a little. “I’m Malfoy,” he said confidently, “Draco Malfoy.”  _

_ A lanky, red-headed boy next to Harry snickered and looked him up and down quickly. Draco turned on him, his eyes scanning his face. “Think my name’s funny, do you? There’s no need to ask for yours.  _

_ “Red hair?” He smirked, beginning to place the boy’s face, “and hand-me-down robes? You must be a Weasley.”  _

_ The Weasley boy turned a deep shade of red and glared at him, stepping down a little.  _

_ “You’ll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.”  _

_ If he was being honest, he didn’t really know what that meant. But he’d heard his father talking that way about the Weasley’s and, well, his father was far from fond with them. And he was determined to put the boy in his place.  _

_ “I can help you there.” He finished, offering the smallest of smiles. However the Potter boy seemed to take this the wrong way and his eyes narrowed, lips curling into a cold grimace.  _

_ “I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.” Harry said.  _

_ Draco didn’t flush, but he felt his insides twist. He could feel the crowd looking at him and he swallowed the lump in his throat. Fine. If Potter didn’t want to be friends with him now, he’d missed his chance. He’d be the one fuming in a few days when Weasley let him down.  _

_ He gave Potter one last glare and withdrew the hand he had held out to shake. He tilted his head to the side and gave a sarcastic smirk, striding back off to a different part of the crowd.  _

_ He resolved to hate the boy, push his face from his mind.  _

_ But for a reason he couldn’t quite understand, Harry Potter’s face wouldn’t budge from it.  _

Draco is not a child anymore. 

He is thirty-five years old. 

He knows he has made some mistakes in the past but he was young then. He did not know what real dangers were. He did not realise how many people he was hurting. And when he did, it was too late. 

When he did, he realised it was easier to shut himself away. That way he only hurt himself. 

Draco sighs and lets his head rest against the cool marble of his kitchen counter. He has never planned on living alone and yet here he is, re-living the same isolated days he lived in his teenage years. Crabbe is dead and he hasn’t spoken with Goyle in years. Most of his childhood friends are dead, either killed in the battle of Hogwarts or at the hands of some other Death Eater. 

His father too is now dead. He wasted away behind the bars of Azkaban and his mother fled shortly after. She was ashamed of her son who cried when he watched his friends die and her husband who was locked away. 

He hasn’t seen her since. 

He knows he should take his medication, but the anti-depressants make him feel weak and sick, his hands always shaking. He feels like a failure if he has to keep taking them and sometimes he tries to manage without but he can never go for long. 

Strangely it was Fred Weasley’s death that struck him the hardest. 

He knows the guy hated him, hated his father, hated his name, but he was there when he was killed and he feels like he should have helped. 

He let Harry Potter save him from the Room of Requirement that night and could only sit by in a smoke infused haze as he watched Fred Weasley laugh and battle away a Death Eater. The next second the wall behind him exploded and the smile was wiped clean from his face. 

The light in his eyes just disappeared and then...then he was gone. 

Just like that. 

He had always thought that the twins were funny, much funnier than he ever tried to be, and now there was no one George Weasley could share that laughter with. 

He attended his funeral, how couldn’t he? But he lingered in the back, not wanting to be seen. He wanted to apologise to every family that had lost a daughter, son, husband, wife, friend-anyone. But he could barely work up the courage to go to Fred’s funeral, let alone anyone else’s. He would never tell anyone that he was there, and he knew George would never tell anyone he saw him cry. Saw him apologise to the headstone. 

Even thinking about it now, knowing he could have done something- _anything_ - to maybe have helped him makes his chest begin to constrict. He feels a single tear roll down his cheek and he squeezes his eyes shut, letting his head thud to the table. 

The stupid bottle of pills still lay opposite him, and he lashes out across the table, knocking them to the floor. He watches as they roll under the cupboard, far too far back for him to reach. 

He doesn’t care. 

_ Twenty-two years ago  _

_ Harry Potter said he did not put his name in the Goblet of Fire.  _

_ And somehow, inexplicably, Draco believed him. Because Potter wasn’t the type to lie. He wasn’t like himself; he didn’t cheat and pretend to believe what his father believed just because it was easier. He didn’t let him know this, of course not, but he felt like he was one of the only people in the whole school who did. Even Ron Weasley didn’t. Granger did, of course she did, she was a brilliant friend and Draco still felt bad for the way he had treated her all these years. He deserved the punch he received from her last year.  _

_ But it wasn’t until the first task that Draco realised that his feelings towards Potter were not hatred. They were, in fact, quite the opposite. After all, love can often be mistaken for hate.  _

_ He remembered watching him in that arena; head held high and defiant, glasses slightly crooked on his face. He looked...he looked...brave.  _

_ The thought hit Draco like a punch in the face. His gaze snapped straight to Potter, willing him to be quicker. There was a bloody dragon on his tail, fire chasing him to within an inch of his life. His hand came up to rest on the badge pinned to his robes, Cedric Diggory’s face flashing on it. How childish he was.  _

_ He prayed that he would win, that he wasn’t going to be killed trying to take part in a game he didn’t want to be in. He doubted any of the judges would really let him die, but even so it was risky and then suddenly Draco understood why he could never get Harry Potter’s face out of his mind.  _

_ Oh.  _ Oh _.  _

_ Draco felt like he was drowning, his thoughts crashing around his mind like a hurricane, his breath escaping him. He sat there paralysed for a few minutes, struggling to take deep, shaky breaths and trying not to let anyone see.  _

_ What would his father think of him?  _

_ He slipped away when he thought no one was looking, his mind far away as he hurried up back to the castle. He swore to himself that he would never look at Harry Potter like that ever again. He did  not  feel anything for him.  _

_ Right?  _

_ Right?  _

Draco often wonders what it would be like to erase the parts of his past that he doesn’t want to remember. It would be so beautifully simple just to press his wand to his forehead.... obliviate ....everything he doesn’t want to remember disappearing forever. 

Would he be happy? Would he still be hurting? 

And what happens if he does erase them but the pain doesn’t go away? What happens if he’s just as sad and lonely, only he doesn’t know why and he’s lost any memory of the dark-haired boy he grew up loving? 

What happens then? 

Why did everyone have to be so hard? Wasn’t his childhood difficult enough? It was exceptionally lonely growing up; caught in the dark paths and forced to fulfil cruelpromises and threats if he wanted to stay alive. He had no real friends. He didn’t want to put any of them in danger, though it didn’t seem to matter because less than three years into schooling his ‘friends’ distanced themselves from him anyway. 

He thinks that everybody noticed this. 

And perhaps it was still a result of Harry Potter’s unnecessary kindness that he never pointed it out. 

Draco knows he wouldn’t have been so kind had it been the other way around. He feels guilty about this even though it only passed his mind for a second. 

He has never married. He has known since his fourth year at Hogwarts that he has no interest in women but neither has he expressed his feelings towards men to anyone. He is too much of a coward. He has never dared to make a move. 

Sometimes the temptation to wipe his mind, his life and his slate clean is too strong and he ends up with his back pressed against the bathroom door, shaking wand to his temple. He never goes through with it. He is too afraid that if he does and nothing changes except the memory of Harry Potter he will feel no better. Well, he wouldn’t know, would he? 

Somehow he knows that would be worse. 

He is stood in front of his mirror now, his chest and arms bare and he looks at himself with such a deep loathing that it hurts to keep staring. He has never...he has never hated himself like he does now. He has never struggled with his appearance that much but he realised over the years how much he wished he could change. 

The first thing, the worst thing about himself, has always been the mark branded onto his left forearm. He never wanted it there, but he followed his father and became what he always feared most he would become. 

A Death Eater. 

Even the name still makes him shiver. 

Over the years he has scratched away at it, tearing his finger nails down his arm to try and make it disappear. The Dark Mark means he is still evil. It means he is still one of  _ them _ ; the ones who killed innocent people and followed The Dark Lord’s demands and brutal wishes. He does not want to stay stuck in that part of his past. 

He was, surprisingly, invited to the Potter’s wedding. He knows that Harry sent out invitations to almost everyone he knows am that he only received one himself because the man was too kind. Draco did not deserve to be there. He wanted to, but he couldn’t bear the thought of  _ Ginny Weasely  _ marrying the only man he’d ever loved. 

He was fully intent on not going but the morning of the wedding there was a knock on his door. He remembered the initial shock he had felt when Luna Lovegood of all people floated straight into his shitty apartment, her long hair flowing behind her. He has never worked out how it was the Luna knew of his...situation...but she sat him down and demanded he roll up the sleeve where the Dark Mark lay. 

Her face didn’t shift or crumple when he saw the deep scars that ran down over it and he was silently grateful. He never told her this but he knows she would understand. And Luna...Luna saved him a lot of pain. She couldn’t erase the Mark from his skin but she could turn it into something that resembled beauty. 

By the time she had finished what she came to do, the Mark no longer looked threatening or dangerous. She had tattooed flowers into every crack and curve of the skull, painting pale pink and sunset orange petals that showed that beauty could be found even in the darkest of places. 

He never got a chance to thank her, never got a chance to tell her how much it meant. But he knew that the tears that spilled over his cheeks she would be able to translate. 

He still couldn’t face the wedding. 

The second thing he hates about himself are the scars that are slashed across his chest. They are ragged and ugly, faded over the years but still there and they remind him that Harry Potter could never love him. 

He never has and he never will. 

_ Nineteen years ago  _

_ Katie Bell had returned to Hogwarts.  _

_ Katie Bell had returned and Draco was the one who had cursed her with the necklace.  _

_ He had never intended for her to get hurt. Dumbledore had been the target. And he knew that was no better but if he didn’t kill Dumbledore then Voldermort was going to kill  him.  His attempts were weak and disastrous and there was no real heart in his attacks. He did not want Dumbledore to die.  _

_ If Dumbledore died then every student would be in great danger. If Dumbledore died then Harry Potter would be in a lot of trouble. Draco didn’t think that he would be able to keep living it Harry was killed.  _

_ Potter was taking to Katie Bell now, and surely he was asking her who cursed her. She wouldn’t know, of course she wouldn’t, but Potter knew it was him. He’d heard him discussing it countless times with Weasley and Granger and it was killing him on the inside.  _

_ Just as the panic began to settle in his mind, Harry turned around, his eyes locking straight with Draco’s. They narrowed for a moment and he felt himself backing out of the hall, stumbling down corridors with tears blurring his vision. He pulled at the tie around his neck, dragging it looser as it threatened to choke him. He couldn’t breathe and his throat was closing up, the walls starting to cave in.  _

_ He burst into the men’s bathroom, his hands curling into fists against the white porcelain, his chest constricting tighter and tighter. It was too hot, so hot, and he tore the jumper from himself, letting it fall somewhere near his feet. He needed to cool down so he splashed a handful of semi-cold water over his face, shuddering as a chill was sent down his spine.  _

_ And then suddenly he was crying, huge body-wracking sobs escaping his chest. Tears were welling in his eyes, burning behind his eyelids, tightening his throat. Why, why,  _ why  _ did he have to be given such an impossible task? Why did he have to be dragged into the cruel ways of his father and mother and almost every family member be knew? Why did he have to be so cruel and  why  did he have to be in love with a boy who hated him almost more than he hated himself?  _

_ And he was so scared. So utterly terrified for his life because  _ he had to kill Dumbledore _!  He was going to fail, like with everything else in his life, except this time there was a huge price to pay for his failure. Even Voldermort himself had failed at this task and had only given it to him because he would undoubtedly be unable to do so. This time there was no escaping.  _

_ “I know what you did, Malfoy.” A voice said quietly from behind him. He whipped around, fear making his stomach flip as he saw Harry Potter stood in the doorway. He  knew,  and even worse he was seeing him crying like a child! Draco Malfoy would not cry in front of anyone.  _

_ He did not feel anything.  _

_ He saw Harry raise his wand loosely and before he could think otherwise he was yelling out the first hex that came to his head. The other boy dodged it, hitting a lamp instead beside him, his own curse coming flying towards him merely a second later. Draco blocked it, thankfully, the spell ricocheting off of a sink nearby, sending sharp pieces of porcelain flying through the air.  _

_ The hex Draco sent back his way smashed a cistern after bouncing off a wall, sending water pouring over the bathroom. Harry fell and Draco wasn’t sure what came over him to even  try  and use the spell he attempted next, but the other boy’s face was murderous, his eyes flashing so dangerously Draco feared his life for a moment,  _

_ “Cruci-“ be began but from the ground Harry bellowed,  _

_ “SECTUMSEMPRA!”  _

_ It was as if a thousand daggers pierced his chest, splitting it open and spilling so much blood. It was staining the water red, his breathing coming out uneven and gasping as he fought for air that wasn’t there. He begun to panic, tears sliding down the side of his face because surely this was the end? Surely Potter would run and there would be nobody to find him?  _

_ He could feel his eyes beginning to close, pain making every struggle for breath excruciating, his wand rolling off somewhere below a sink.  _

_ But the commotion had grabbed somebody’s attention because the next second there were footsteps and the bottom of a dark cloak that could only belong to- _

_ -Snape’s face appeared in his line of vision, his dark eyes alight with horror and he heard the footsteps of someone else running from the bathroom. He was going to die. He knew it now.  _

_ But then the blood was...was it...going back into him? How could it- _

_ And then he heard the fast, quiet muttering of some kind of counter-curse that was making the blood disappear. His vision was blackening but he could breathe easier now, and as he slipped unconscious suddenly he understood that he might still make it.  _

_ But then, he realised, that was not a source of comfort.  _

He had failed to kill Dumbledore, just like he knew he would do. However that did not mean that Dumbledore survived. 

Snape. 

Snape killed Dumbledore. 

Snape killed Dumbledore and Draco never knew why until Harry Potter revealed to the world the truth to the world about what happened. If he’s being honest he still doesn’t really understand, but he doesn’t have it in him to look deeper into it. 

He just wants to cry. But he’s cried so much that he’s not sure if he even cry any more. He just feels sort of numb. There’s too much to think about, too much to feel and he knows it might never go away but he just wants to stop hurting. Is it not enough that he already had to go through this once? Why does he have to feel like he did all those years? Why can’t he just be  _happy_? 

He doesn’t even know what he wants anymore. He doesn’t want...he  _ can’t  _ want Harry because it would be unfair. He is married! He has children. And he knows his love is unrequited, he knows this, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. He wishes it would. Because surely if he knows he can never be with the man he loves, no matter which universe or lifetime they’re in, he would find that over time the pain should start to subside? 

Well. 

He knows that this is far from what has happened. 

He also knows that he’s far too late to hope for forgiveness. In fact, no, he already knows that that he will get the forgiveness he wants but does not deserve. And he’s not sure which is worse; being granted a weight lifted off of his shoulders without really earning it or knowing that Harry Potter will hate him for the rest of his life. 

He should...be should tell him. He should tell him how he feels. He’s not looking for pity or even for Harry to understand-because, fuck, if this was the other way around Draco knows he wouldn’t be so quick to forgive-but he feels that if anything Harry deserves to know the truth. 

And maybe if he can’t tell Harry he should tell Ginny? Even if she kept it just to herself he might feel like there’s been a heaviness taken from his chest. Or maybe they would both freak out. Maybe they’d fight, maybe he and Harry would fight because that’s all they’ve ever known and- 

-And he would deserve it. 

He would deserve hate and mirthless laughter. He would deserve cruelty and pain because he has spent his own life so freely giving that out to others that if anything, he should hurt more. 

He doesn’t want to, but he should. 

He knows where the Potter’s live. 

It’s not as weird as it sounds either. 

He sees updates in the Daily Prophet often enough to know that the Potter Family lives in Godric’s Hollow. He also assumes that if anything were to have changed it would be the new headline. 

_Family_. 

He has never has a family. Not one that loved him, anyway. He supposes he should be grateful that they were even alive-so many people he knew didn’t have even that. But he never felt safe at his house-not a home, never a home-and there were always eyes watching, waiting for him to slip up. 

He decides that maybe he will talk to Harry Potter. 

He couldn’t possibly hurt himself any more. 

He apparates into Godric’s Hollow before he can tell himself to re-think his decision. He does not look at the graveyard beside the church because there are the names of too many faces that he knows. 

It’s colder than he thought it was and he shivers in the evening chill, the first few flakes of snow settling on the pavements. He likes the feeling of them in his hair. 

He hasn’t bothered to cut his hair like he used to; it’s too long and is scraped back into a messy ponytail and he knows he doesn’t look like he used to. His eyes have always been grey and cold but now they’re sunken and have lost their light. Sadness and pain have taken it away. He knows he’s too thin and that his cheekbones stick out and his collar bones protrude even from underneath his shirt but he can’t eat much anyway and his hands usually shake too much. He doesn’t care for his appearance like he used to. 

He supposes he looks like Death itself, but he cannot bring himself to care. However even death refuses to compliment him and he looks more skeletal like than ever. 

He is afraid of death. 

But not of his own. 

_ Eighteen years ago  _

_ “Harry Potter is Dead.”  _

_ Draco didn’t let out even a breath. Harry was dead. How could he be dead?  _

_ He could feel the familiar weight of sadness squeezing his heart and the world seemed to come to a standstill. It was nothing like he’d felt before and he felt suddenly dazed and faint, the world immediately picking up its speed and spinning faster and faster beyond control.  _

_ He knew this could happen and yet he wasn’t ready for it. He was never prepared for the gaping hole in his chest to open or for his very insides to be screaming out in agony. But still he had nothing to say. He burned, dizziness making him painfully nauseous but no words would come, nothing would form. He needed to leave, to run and never come back, to escape,  anything  at all but he was rooted to the spot, a mixture of sorrow and anger keeping him glued to the ground.  _

_ It was the same feeling, only multiplied by a number higher than he could imagine, of a rug being pulled from beneath his feet. He had never thought about how it might feel to watch someone he loved die until it was stood staring it right in the eye. And everyone took life for granted. Even the strongest amongst them.  _

_ And now Harry Potter was gone.  _

_ He was dead.  _

_ There were people sobbing nearby he should try and comfort them but he was so utterly paralysed that he was afraid if he moved everything would shatter. The little bits and pieces of his life scattering into every corner of the earth. He would never find them again.  _

_ Surely he would never find happiness again.  _

_ He watched the lifeless body of the man he loved laying there in Hagrid’s arms. Oh, how he had taken Hagrid for granted too. He was so kind, so heartbroken now, and Draco had never so much as even shared a smile with him.  _

_ He had been cold and distant to so many people; Dumbledore, Snape, Lupin, everyone...and all these people were dead. Gone. Forever. Their families devastated and heartbroken and  Lupin had a child!  A child. Another child left without love and care in the world.  _

_ He knew that he had taken so much for granted in his life, treated people wrongly but it was only right there, practically holding Death’s hand, that he realised how broken he was.  _

_ And then Harry Potter moved.  _

Of course, Harry was never really dead. But it had shown Draco how much he truly loved him. He has always known this, of course, but it was only when he saw what he could loose that it really hit him. 

And he’d still lost him anyway. 

Although, he was never his to keep. 

He reaches the house he knows to be the Potter’s in almost no time. Each footstep towards it send a wave of nausea through his body, anxiety almost making his legs give way. 

He wants to walk away, pretend he never came, but he can’t bring himself to do so. The house is pretty; painted white and decorated with poppies and roses around the door frames and windows, the grass a little overgrown but still green. He knocks with small, sharp raps and steps back onto the concrete, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. 

The few minutes he waits are excruciating. There is no answer and the whole time he’s just praying that it won’t go badly, his heart in his throat and his ears ringing. When there is still no one at the door he tries again. 

And again. 

And again. 

He walks around the side of the house, his eyes heavy with unshed tears, but the lights are off. Even worse, when he peers in there is no furniture or decoration of even any sign of anybody living there at all. 

No. No, no, no, no,  _no_! 

He can’t have left! He can’t have! 

He looks around wildly, his eyes landing on an old woman stood near the church a few meters away. He runs over to her before he decides what to say, his mind over-working and a headache beating against his temple. 

“Excuse me,” he says breathlessly, his heart almost stopping as she turns around. 

The woman is probably in her eighties, grey hair pulled back tightly into a bun, deep wrinkles crisscrossing over her face. Her eyes are bright blue and shiny, years of pain giving her a sort of sadness that only comes with the loss of someone special. She is old, much older than when Draco last saw her, and yet at the same time nothing much has changed. She still holds herself gracefully and steadily, although she uses the help ofa cane to lean on, and her posture is strong. 

“Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall says. Her voice is just as strong and steady, her gaze unwavering. He’s not sure if she has forgiven him. 

“It’s Draco, professor.”

“Very well. And it’s Minerva, Draco. I am not your teacher.” 

“Yes. Yeah, of course.” 

They stand in silence for a moment, Draco trying to work out a way to bring up his situation without sounding desperate. But he is desperate. He’s clinging onto this one desperate hope. 

“You don’t look well, Draco.” She says after a while. He sighs, letting the cold wind numb his burning cheeks. 

“I know.” 

“Are you?” 

“Am I what?” He knows what she means but he can’t bring himself to say ‘no’. 

No. He’s not okay. No. He’s not happy. No. He’s not recovered from watching his friends die and  no  he is not in love with Harry Potter! 

McGonagall doesn’t reply. She looks out into the distance and Draco wonders how it must feel to have watched so many of her beloved students die fighting for her school. She is still the headmistress of Hogwarts now, and she has been since Dumbledore’s death, but he can’t imagine seeing so many names and faces on graves and headstones that have weathered with age and fallen crooked that she knew. 

His pain must be nothing compared to her’s and yet she has not fallen apart. 

“Do the Potter’s still live here?” He asks almost conversationally, hoping that the strain is not visible in his voice. McGonagall’s face falls and she looks up at him with such a deep sadness that he is certain she must know. 

“No.” She says after a while, almost missing her voice to the wind. 

No? 

The sadness drained right through him rather than skating over his skin. It traveled through every cell in his body, reaching every inch of him and he could feel the effects of fatigue he’d been resisting taking hold of him. He felt hollow and raw, loneliness and sorrow building up and up until he could barely even think never mind speak. 

“Where are they?’ He choked out, hearing the bitter desperation crawl into his voice. He closed his eyes, praying to every god in every religion that he would get an answer. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know.” 

A single tear rolled down his cheek, hot against the cold wind, and he nodded his head as much as it would allow him to in his numb state. 

“Thank you, Professor.” He whispered. 

As he walks away into the cold night he doesn’t hear the old woman’s broken reply of, 

“It’s Minevra.”

He didn’t know what to feel. 

It was like being slowly picked apart by paper cuts; for every time he remembers what he’s lost it’s another cut to his damaged mind. None are ever enough to kill him, but over time their accumulation bled him of the little happiness he had left. 

There is no past or future, other than the same daunting pain and aching every living moment of his life and he has no way to move forwards. 

He is shaking, he can feel it, and he doesn’t know where his feet have taken him. He only knows that he is slumped against a wall, his tears melting a patch of the snow by his feet. And he wants more than anything to stop hurting! He would give up so much for just that blessed moment of blissful happiness and yet the world can’t even grant him that. He just wants to...

...he just wants to forget. 

Forget it all; his pain and his past and everything that is drilling into his mind like relentlessly. 

He is willing to pay any price for that if it will make it go away. 

His wand trembles in his unsteady hands as he feels the cold tip of it touch his temple tenderly. There is no going back now. If he thinks too much about it he’ll back down and he’ll still have to live with the pain of thirty five years. 

He thinks of all the things he wants to forget; his father locking him in his room for days when his Death Eater friends came round, the red of Voldermort’s eyes, the way Harry Potter is always stuck in his mind. His bottle green eyes are too piercing and his jet black hair is so much prettier than his own. He is too kind, too thoughtful and Draco wants it all to stop.

Just for a moment. 

Just for a second. 

Stop. 

“ _Obliviate_...” he whispers into the night. 

~~~~~~~~~

Draco Malfoy is only slightly lost. 

He’s never been one for directions and it always seems like when he tries to remember where he is there is something blocking his memory. It’s fuzzy and blurry and he feels like maybe he hit his head or something when he was a child. 

It’s a little strange but he doesn’t really care. He is scared if he diggs around he might find something he doesn’t want to know. And right now he is happy, he is blissfully happy, and he couldn’t ask for more. 

He turns into the next street he finds, hoping to find someone to ask for directions and is immediately overcome with a sense of deja vu. The street feels familiar although he is sure he’s never so much as stepped foot on it before. 

It’s quite small, really. There’s a church and a large cemetery with aged headstones and withering trees and a few houses lining the pavement for a good few minutes. 

They are pretty houses; well-kept and clean and he thinks to himself how lucky the people who live here are. Perhaps he will buy one himself someday. 

There is no one around so he takes the opportunity to snoop around a little, intrigued by the weird sense of familiarity he can feel. The pavements are cobbled and ageing and it makes him feel like he’s part of a film of some sort. But a film that’s he’s seen before because there is something so strange that he can’t quite put his finger on. 

He is just taking a left turn, the sun beating down hard on his face, when he hears someone call his name from down the street. He can’t identify the voice so he turns slowly around, unsure if maybe he just imagined it. 

“Draco!” The voice says again. 

A man runs down towards him and Draco is momentarily stunned by how good-looking he is. He seems like the type of person he would definitely fall for if he knew him. 

He has long-ish, dark hair that is pulled up into a messy bun on his head, a few strands of it falling down into his face. His eyes are a bottle green behind a pair of thin, circular glasses that fit his face perfectly. There is a light stubble along his perfect jawline and chin and when he reaches a hand up to flick a piece of hair out of his face, he sees that the nails are painted a dark red. He looks to be about the same age as himself and perhaps the face is a little familiar but he thinks to himself that maybe he just looks like someone he went to school with or met at work a few years ago. 

He says nothing, waiting for the strange man who seems to know him to say something. 

However the man just looks at him expectantly, a curious expression in his eyes.His head tilts a little to the side, and Draco feels like he knows him, maybe only briefly, but he’s surely just getting ahead of himself. 

He has no idea who this man is.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, disclaimer: I don’t ship Drarry. Personally I think it’s a bit toxic BUT i do think that Draco might have had an unrequited crush on Harry and that’s what inspired me to write this  
> That and the fact that although I don’t particularly *like* Draco, I feel really bad for him and his situation and the things he went through 
> 
> Anyway!!! 
> 
> Hello! Thank you for reading this, please leave a comment if you can they mean so much to me :)  
> Thank you :)
> 
> Okay so this is like i don’t know a good few months after I posted this but don’t think for one second that I’m a Draco apologist or that (now) I feel bad for him in the slightest. I don’t ship Drarry AT ALL, Draco is one of the characters I dislike the most and the only reason I haven’t deleted this post is because of the hits on it😂 I was happy with them 
> 
> Just thought that for anybody reading this and thinking ew a Draco Stan NOOOO IM NOT I PROMISE


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